kitchen. Stepmother took a deep breath.
“Very good soup,” Father said to her. “The Old One make you blood-strengthening oxtail soup.”
“Excellent soup for women,” Third Uncle said. He puffed at his pipe and shouted in the direction of the kitchen: “Very fine dinner tonight.”
Father sent me into the kitchen to help. I could see Poh-Poh had pricked up her ears to hear every word of praise. It was my turn to say something to the Old One, such as “Thank you for the good food,” but so many thoughts tumbled through my head that I, instead, silently studied the Old One rushing about, watching as she shuttled plates into the sink. Then, with a deft finger and thumb curving around the bamboo ladle, the same finger and thumb that made Father shout at her, she swiftly poured simmering broth into Stepmother’s bowl. My blatant staring at her hand, at the open palm that lifted the porcelain bowl like a baby’shead, lifting without spilling a drop, must have trapped her between thoughts.
“Grandson,” she said, and staggered against the sink. “Ghosts have followed me here.”
As she squeezed her eyes to shut in the tears, pausing a moment before we would step back into the dining room, I somehow understood what the Old One had meant:
life was bitter and hard
. Taking my own small steps beside her, I stared at the steaming blue bowl, the hot blood-strengthening liquid swaying inches above my head.
“Are we poor?” I asked.
Third Uncle laughed. “Not yet.”
Here in Salt Water City, he explained, we had a pine-board home with running tap water, a metal stove that ate logs in its grated mouth, and enough dried food stored away in a deep pantry for a month of eating. “No worry,” he said. “We keep your baby sister.”
In
Hahm-sui-fauh
, Mrs. Lim told me, hardly any girl babies were abandoned, though quite a few were sold to merchant families to be raised as servants, or were traded for a boy baby who would be a greater joy for the adopting family, or—if undesirable and ugly—would be given away, like the children given away by white people. In this city, and in New Westminster, and even Victoria, there were buildings that warehoused hundreds of such children.
Stepmother, too, must have been fretting. She consulted Third Uncle. He told her of his arrangementswith the elders of the Chen Tong Society that he himself would see to any additional expenses the girl baby might entail; for sure, he said, our family would keep Jook-Liang. Third Uncle laughed at her Old China fears. Still, all that first month of Liang’s life, I remember how Stepmother clutched on to her girl baby as if nothing would separate them.
“No worry,” Poh-Poh assured her. “Gold Mountain not like Old China.”
Third Uncle expected a boy child, but like Father he did not mind the first being a girl. Uncle wiped his wire-rimmed glasses and told me that Baby Jook-Liang and I must remember how to refer to each other in Chinese, because we were Chinese. Little Sister soon was called Liang-Liang, which meant “Beautiful Bell.” In English, however, everything would be made simpler if we matched all our
gai-gee
, our false documents. That was why Liang-Liang would call her own mother Gai-mou: we would fool the demon immigration spies, who would otherwise deport us back to China.
“Remember that in this country of white demons we are undesirables—
Chinks,”
Third Uncle said, “but we are, in fact, a superior people.”
Father quoted a Chinese poet and spoke of the Middle Kingdom being “a country as old as sorrow.”
That made me think that no one ever laughed in Old China. I was glad to be in Canada.
“Kiam-Kim, never forget,
ney hai Tohng-Yahn,”
Father said. “Never forget, you are Chinese.”
The way Father stared proudly at Third Uncle, who was showing me large picture books with ancientChinese temples, and the way they both turned to study each page, telling me tales of monks who could snap steel rods and smash
“Very good soup,” Father said to her. “The Old One make you blood-strengthening oxtail soup.”
“Excellent soup for women,” Third Uncle said. He puffed at his pipe and shouted in the direction of the kitchen: “Very fine dinner tonight.”
Father sent me into the kitchen to help. I could see Poh-Poh had pricked up her ears to hear every word of praise. It was my turn to say something to the Old One, such as “Thank you for the good food,” but so many thoughts tumbled through my head that I, instead, silently studied the Old One rushing about, watching as she shuttled plates into the sink. Then, with a deft finger and thumb curving around the bamboo ladle, the same finger and thumb that made Father shout at her, she swiftly poured simmering broth into Stepmother’s bowl. My blatant staring at her hand, at the open palm that lifted the porcelain bowl like a baby’shead, lifting without spilling a drop, must have trapped her between thoughts.
“Grandson,” she said, and staggered against the sink. “Ghosts have followed me here.”
As she squeezed her eyes to shut in the tears, pausing a moment before we would step back into the dining room, I somehow understood what the Old One had meant:
life was bitter and hard
. Taking my own small steps beside her, I stared at the steaming blue bowl, the hot blood-strengthening liquid swaying inches above my head.
“Are we poor?” I asked.
Third Uncle laughed. “Not yet.”
Here in Salt Water City, he explained, we had a pine-board home with running tap water, a metal stove that ate logs in its grated mouth, and enough dried food stored away in a deep pantry for a month of eating. “No worry,” he said. “We keep your baby sister.”
In
Hahm-sui-fauh
, Mrs. Lim told me, hardly any girl babies were abandoned, though quite a few were sold to merchant families to be raised as servants, or were traded for a boy baby who would be a greater joy for the adopting family, or—if undesirable and ugly—would be given away, like the children given away by white people. In this city, and in New Westminster, and even Victoria, there were buildings that warehoused hundreds of such children.
Stepmother, too, must have been fretting. She consulted Third Uncle. He told her of his arrangementswith the elders of the Chen Tong Society that he himself would see to any additional expenses the girl baby might entail; for sure, he said, our family would keep Jook-Liang. Third Uncle laughed at her Old China fears. Still, all that first month of Liang’s life, I remember how Stepmother clutched on to her girl baby as if nothing would separate them.
“No worry,” Poh-Poh assured her. “Gold Mountain not like Old China.”
Third Uncle expected a boy child, but like Father he did not mind the first being a girl. Uncle wiped his wire-rimmed glasses and told me that Baby Jook-Liang and I must remember how to refer to each other in Chinese, because we were Chinese. Little Sister soon was called Liang-Liang, which meant “Beautiful Bell.” In English, however, everything would be made simpler if we matched all our
gai-gee
, our false documents. That was why Liang-Liang would call her own mother Gai-mou: we would fool the demon immigration spies, who would otherwise deport us back to China.
“Remember that in this country of white demons we are undesirables—
Chinks,”
Third Uncle said, “but we are, in fact, a superior people.”
Father quoted a Chinese poet and spoke of the Middle Kingdom being “a country as old as sorrow.”
That made me think that no one ever laughed in Old China. I was glad to be in Canada.
“Kiam-Kim, never forget,
ney hai Tohng-Yahn,”
Father said. “Never forget, you are Chinese.”
The way Father stared proudly at Third Uncle, who was showing me large picture books with ancientChinese temples, and the way they both turned to study each page, telling me tales of monks who could snap steel rods and smash
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